


A Touch

by uumuu



Series: To Fall Into Place [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Exhibitionism, M/M, Nudity, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The encounter that morning was accidental, the touch not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch

The morning had begun as many others. He had cooled the furnace, and headed out still dressed in his stained work clothes, walking until he found himself in the gardens at the other end of town. Once there, he climbed to the top of the hill and crouched down, facing the terraced slope where flowers bloomed. He gazed out towards the horizon, but barely took in the dazzling view stretching before him like a breathing painting. 

It was only after a while that he became aware of someone swimming in the artificial pool which had not long before been dug out in the north-western corner of the gardens, a rather large basin whose water also fed a slender waterfall down the side of Túna. He didn't give the person much consideration at first – the purpose of his morning outings wasn't to meddle in other people's lives, and he had had an unfulfilling night in the forge – but they kept getting out of the pool and diving back in again with splashes that were loud enough for him to ear and to distract him from his brooding. When he finally turned and, frowning, peered at the pool, he realised that the swimmer was none other than Ñolofinwë, and that he was naked.

For a moment he wondered if Ñolofinwë had spotted him up on the hill, and was making noise to disturb him on purpose, but dismissed the thought as too puerile, the sort Nerdanel would have chided him for.

His curiosity had been piqued nonetheless, and he could not go back to his absent-minded contemplation of Tirion and the landscape beyond. His half-brother was there, careless and energetic, and it spurred him into action. 

He hastened down the hill, jumping down the terraces rather than following the winding paths. He reached the paved slope that declined towards the pool just as Ñolofinwë walked out of it, stopping on the edge to squeeze the water out of his hair. Water trickled down his body, along the contours of his muscles or over them, making it glisten in the shimmering transition from silver to gold of the first mixing.

Ñolofinwë noticed him when he finally lifted his head and released his hair, letting it fall on his shoulders and back. It was much longer than Fëanáro's own – Fëanáro had soon learnt it was impractical to have hair longer than mid-back when one spent hours bent over a workbench drenched in sweat – and longer than he had imagined it to be. It occurred to him he had never seen it loose. He had never seen Ñolofinwë naked before either. He didn't consider nudity immodest, as many did, but Ñolofinwë was fastidiously diligent about cultivating a speckless, irreproachable public image and that insouciant display seemed completely at odds with it. 

Ñolofinwë walked up the slope and past him, with an imperceptible movement of his head that might or might not have been a greeting, and approached the low stone bench where his clothes were neatly folded. 

_That_ was typical, Fëanáro thought, of Ñolofinwë's primness. He pictured himself in the same situation. He would have tossed his clothes carelessly to the ground and just dived in. Ñolofinwë took the towel that hung over the bench's backrest, and started drying himself, giving him no apparent consideration.

“It is...unexpected, to find you here under such circumstances,” Fëanáro spoke at last, his tone measured, ready to gauge Ñolofinwë's reaction.

“What circumstances?” Ñolofinwë returned – laconic, firm, but carefully guarded against Fëanáro's insinuations - and studied him in turn, noting that Fëanáro's hair was dishevelled and his clothes almost as bedraggled, indicating that he came from the forge, rather than from his bedroom.

“The High Prince going swimming naked in a public park,” Fëanáro snickered, letting a note of mockery slip into his voice when he said 'high prince'.

“I don't see anything amiss with it. There's nobody around to pry. Except the High Prince, that is.”

“Hard to pry when you parade yourself, as if you _wish_ to be seen.”

“What if I do?” Ñolofinwë asked challengingly, and before Fëanáro had a chance to rebut, he tilted his chin up, looking down at Fëanáro coolly, and added, “do you like what you see?”

Contrary to what Ñolofinwë expected, Fëanáro shrugged and all too readily said: “...I can't say that I don't.” 

Ñolofinwë had to pause to consider the reply, trying to ignore how much it appealed to his vanity. Fëanáro wasn't a flatterer, and Ñolofinwë could detect no malice in his tone, no slightest hint of mockery in his countenance, either. 

He had no time to make any further reflections. Fëanáro walked the few steps separating them and reached out with his right hand. He touched his arm, just above the elbow, circling it with thick rough fingers – the tips blackened by soot, the thumb sporting a large fresh blister – which he slowly trailed over the outline of his muscle.

Ñolofinwë stood completely still. Fëanáro's gaze changed. It became attentive, almost enraptured, as if he were appraising something exceedingly appealing. He knew, by personal experience, that Fëanáro never devoted his attention to something unless he was truly drawn to it, be it a mere trifle to anybody else. The fervid scrutiny put him ill at ease, and at the same time gratified him in a way which flustered him. It lasted on the whole but a few instants. He wrenched his arm free with a harsher movement than he had intended, and stepped to the side. With the corner of his eye he glimpsed the motion by which Fëanáro drew his arm back and curled his fingers, as if to retain whatever he had garnered from the touch.

Ñolofinwë had no such luxury, but the heavy coarseness of Fëanáro's fingers stuck to his skin like his wet hair clung to his back. He almost expected a mark to bloom on it, though the touch had been unquestionably gentle. He put his breeches and pants back on. He didn't bother to wear his shirt.

He was aware of Fëanáro's gaze never leaving him a moment. Its persistence deepened his confusion, and he would wanted to look into Fëanáro's eyes again, find out what exactly they saw.

He wrapped the towel around the lower half of his hair and threw it over his shoulders. The sensation of Fëanáro's touch still lingered on his arm and he had to resist the urge to touch the spot. He clenched his hands around his bundled-up shirt.

“Good day,” he said as he walked away, raising his head but looking past Fëanáro.

Fëanáro didn't reply. Ñolofinwë half-expected him to follow – and he was surprised to realise that a part of him wished he would, if only to have an excuse to be truly angry at him.

Fëanáro watched Ñolofinwë go sinking the nails of his right hand into his palm. The whole hand seemed to tickle. He blamed it on the morning's vexation, on the fact that his project wasn't coming along as he had anticipated. He tried to find excuses, but he couldn't deny it. As Ñolofinwë's figure became progressively smaller and finally disappeared over the ridge of the hill, all he felt was a wild urge to run after him and touch him again.

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago amyfortuna told me they would have liked to read how Fëanor and Fingolfin got together in the Thy due place verse. This is the very beginning.


End file.
